The Painter.

I am troubled by these new designs
that flock my patterned walls with straight arrows.
The painter has to come and finish this mess.
He has big, flabby arms, a pointed nose,
and beady eyes like a wolf.
I couldn't see myself marrying him,
or anyone else for that matter.
My mother, she was such a saint,
she did all the painting herself on the old house-
the one with the faded wallpaper that made
me think of the houses in the 80's,
you know what I'm talking about,
the ones where the construction builders
don't paint the house for you.  You have to hire
someone else.  And now, as I am standing here,
watching the painter work with the walls,
I think again of how lucky I am to have a house
at all-I thought about this before, and before,
and before.

What It Is Not.

The dancer stares at me from beyond his sight.
I am worthless and in flight.
The dust to dark has returned-
my aunt is still dead in her urn.

The tables and chairs are still on the stairs,
and the woman in white is about to take flight.
Here is the worthless coin at the fair,
and I hope to go out with my lass tonight.

The dancer moves with the grace of a lamb,
and shadows the floor with her body.
The cook has sent out another ham,
and the maid is scurrying in the lobby.

The Sweetheart's Revenge.

I live in water.
I dwell in winter.
Inside the heart, I am plenty.
Nothing is safe within me.
Grass grows like pretty flowers,
and bells are distant
to my ears.  Strangeness hears.
The wind blows through me.
I am quiet with my readiness.

The road is less traveled.
Lend me your ears.
Strangeness is around me.
I see nothing and hear nothing.
My love comes from afar to see me,
and I sing like the greatness is coming.
Words befall me.

The Beach.

The sea is bright and calm.
I walk out on the dusty beach.
It is so far, I cannot reach-
but the night is cool and warm.
I am safe from harm.
Here the air smells of salty spray,
the beach is in disarray.
Here we come, walking along,
cooler than the coolest dawn.
Merchants call us from the streets,
they are not strong; yet, they are weak.
I try to speak gently in the good night air,
all the dolphins do is stare.
Here are the fish, I throw them back in,
life is gone; it will not come in.

This Past September.

My heart fell apart, and now my car won't start-
it's hurting and falling apart.
I don't know where now and never is,
I'm lonely and I won't become dead.
I just shaved my head.
Take me now and wait for tomorrow;
this good luck is what I'll borrow.
Watch for the rain and then the sun,
our light is what will become one.
Take me now, fast as I am,
my heart is gentle, and will be gone.
Life is not over and done.
Take myself as myself, and be done with my
mourning.
A new dawn is dawning.
I swung with him this past September,
and my love for him is never....

The Page.

I am careful because I am ready.
My inner thoughts are steady.
Here is where I stand; my inner thoughts
collide.  The rain is falling with the tide.
My dreams are forced realizations.
I don't know what I am able.
A turkey sits at my dinner table.
Hope floats in the garden.  My arm hurts
after it rains.  There is nothing on the plains.
Take myself from myself, there is nothing
else but pain.  I walk forward and backwards,
and my inner sides hurt and swell.  Gas bubbles
burst.
My life is the worst.
What did I capture?  Was it rain, or was it
snow?  I want to be with you now,
don't you know?  Here is where I am.
My life is on the brink of extinction.
I try to create less suffering, but it doesn't work
for me.
I hide my inner glee from you, don't you know it is true?
Words are captured on a blank page.

Change.

Every day is not like the other one.
I see ghosts in my shoes, and what else do I see...
I see a tree outside of my window, it is waving at me.
My roommate is sleeping in her bed.  I don't remember
what  I said.  I'm waiting for him to come home
and tuck me in to bed.  She sits beside me,
and waits, as if she would not leave.  I know she is about
to grieve.  The wild, wild wind is moaning.
Everything is complex to me.  I still see the tree.
The dog is barking outside.  The night has come alive.
I whisper to her, and she whispers back that the horses
are still dead.  They died while climbing rocket science.
It's not the same thing as being an astronaut, it's more complex
than that.  I don't know where it's at.  My age is just a number.
I sit by the stream.  Everything is plentiful, and so is the
garden.
I watch tv, hoping for meditation.  I go in my backyard,
and swing on the swing.  It makes a slight whooshing sound
in my ear.  The world begins to fear.  We build a giant door,
and the cat swings and sings outward, going upward.
I wish it was me.
The cat comes back again, banging on the window, and
I don't know what to tell him.  He tells me goodbye.  I can't
ask why.
Everyone stares at me like a sweet, staring thing.  It gets in my
eyes, and makes my heart beat rapidly like a cardio workout.
I don't like getting up in the morning.  My back hurts,
and so do my shoulders.  I hate tv.

Charles.

The ghost is in my hand.  I don't speak unless I am spoken to.
Tomorrow is another day.  It doesn't come, and the trees shake and shiver.
The river is wide.  Here comes the tide.  I am a prince in my own
way; tomorrow is here like today.  My face is serene,
and calm.  I am bitter and not warm.  Work comes before
nature; everything else is in between.  Don't tell me what
you mean.  I'm gentle as a cat.  I love cats.  They love me,
too.  I see you belong in a zoo.  My computer doesn't
work very well.  As far as I could tell.
Nothing is small in this world.  Everything begins with hope.
Television is too much for me.  I wish I was somewhere
else, like Florida or Maryland, where I can give back what
I give.  I am tired and sleepy.  Which word means the most?
Charles isn't back yet; he hasn't come home.
I am more tired than alone.  I wish he wouldn't come,
but I don't want to be alone.  In the end, everything is the
same.  I read books, but I'm not to blame. 
The song comes to me.  I hear it in your voice.  You dream up
choice.  The fire hydrant is down on one knee,
let it be, let it be.

A Summer Rain.

The rain smells of wet dew.
I am quiet with realization.
The sadness is in the cold, wet grass.
I have found my vision.
We can relate to the things of this world-
and the next, and the next.
Speed comes with thinking.  I don't think without
feeling.  He comes in the night, wearing a
dark parka.  He feels me in the cool dawn.
The summer rain splatters on the ground.
It makes a soft, sweet sound.
I don't know what's wrong with me.
I think things have gone from here.
Take me or leave me, I wouldn't know.
There is a space in my arms below.
How high can I fly, these words sing to me.
I am embarrassed by hope, set on by fear.
Take me as I am, leave the rest behind you-or near.
A summer rain falls down, down.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow is just another day.  Day after day, I do the same thing:
Get up, get dressed, and watch tv.  I don’t change my clothes, only
My shirt, so my pants are dirty and my underwear is not clean,
Either.  Day after day.  The light shines in through the window every
Stinkin’ day.  Every time I play.  My heart beats in my chest.
There is a test.  Tomorrow is just another day.  I like to hear what you say.
The river runs like rain.  It makes a splashing sound as I jump into it,
And swim like a fish.  The fish are plentiful.  I’d like to go fishing,
Tomorrow is just another day for fishing.  Any other day is like tomorrow.
I have found my way out of this day, and every day, I pray-I am lucky.
It’s not about luck.  It’s about tomorrow.  Tomorrow comes on skates.
Tomorrow is worrisome.  What if I get into an accident tomorrow?  What if
My man breaks up with me?  I don’t know what else to think.  Tomorrow is just
Another day.

I am alone.

Nathan:  I am…alone.
Aunt Mindy:  Oh, sill, you’re being all dramatic again.  This time, let’s add tears to the sniffling.
Nathan:  I wasn’t sniffling.  I was yelling.
Aunt Mindy:  No way are you going to get girl by yelling.
Nathan:  Then how do you get a girl?
Aunt Mindy:  By…groveling.  That’s how my Howard and I did it.  Apparently, Sally said I was the one to grovel first.
Nathan:  That’s something to be proud of…right?
Aunt Mindy.  You’re asking a lot of questions.  If you be polite, I’ll give you some mints.  
Nathan:  I don’t want some mints…I want to know how to get a girl.
Aunt Mindy:  And then what do you plan on doing with this girl?
Nathan:  I thought I was supposed to marry her.
Aunt Mindy:  That is one way.  Or you could take her to the dentist.

Worrying.

The sun shines down on me like rain.
I feel the beat of your heart next to mine.
Shadows fold like daffodils.
My heart is ready inside my chest.
Everything is for the best.
Let’s see your heart-at the hospital,
You are getting ready for chemotherapy.
I have found that I like to write words
Of poetry on my lawn.  I sense the coming
Dawn.  It rises in the west and settles in the east
And I don’t have any other idea to meet with you
Than to meet with you at a coffee house.
Where are you?  I can’t find you in the dark.
It is quiet here.  Our lives are quiet.  I am quiet.
Everything is quiet and more than the same
Than yesterday.  So many people.  Not enough
Time to talk to you.  I wish I could talk to you.
My tongue hangs from my mouth like a panting dog.
I am here.  I am not far.  Don’t worry, don’t worry

The Bear.

The bear rolled himself up out of the water
and waddled across the road-
he was thinking deeply, as all bears should,
about fish.
I am like a bear.  I scratch myself and yawn
loudly and make great bear-noises.
The bear was a lot like a bear.
He had nothing to hold on to-no family,
no friends, just his great big paws sifting
through the water for fish.
The fish are like all fish.  Fishing is simple.
The bear makes himself known to the local
fishermen who fear him and his  mighty gestures.
He waddles a little ways through the trees,
stops, and sniffs the air-the sky is filled with
smoke from a log house down a ways in the forest
of trees, in the forest of nights.  Nights are scary
in the woods; the bear knows this.

Eyes Of a Little.

The eyes of the fire is not the fire
it burns inside of me, charring my lungs and heart.
I have found a better way of dealing with this.
I have found different things to think about.
This life is not my life.  It is someone else's.
My life is something more important than life;
the tree is growing in the backyard.
Why is life so hard?  I try and I try and I just can't
seem to make it work.  Every little thing is difficult
for me.  It's not just what I see, but what I
experience as well.  So as far as I can tell,
this life is fit for me.  I dream little dreams.  I take
books wherever I go, especially at the library
where the lines are slow.  Don't go past go.
Give me five hundred dollars, in tens and ones.
I look like I need a shower.  My mother comes home
in three days.  I haven't seen her in ages.  Where I am
is where I ought to be, it's what I want to become
that's inside of me like a light bulb going off.  I grow and I
grow just like a little tree.  The dinosaurs have come
back.

Rainbow Storm.

A man is washed upon the shore of a beach, 
His face twisted, contorted, fighting for a breath of air. 
A starfish, sunning on the shore, lays flat on the ground nearby, 
Searching for a way back in the water. 
Sea gulls scream overhead, begging for food, 
A glimpse of foreign land. There is none on the horizon, 
Save for the salt sea air and a rainbow 
That has appeared after a storm. 

The day has just broken over the horizon; light 
Has fallen still. The man gets up, wakes up, 
His thoughts are calm, ready as anything; 
His body moves like water, as he tiptoes over the 
Hot sand, as he moves with the rhythm of the 
Crashing waves. The earth is not still; his body 
Is a movement of geometrical shapes, perfect 
In every way. The ocean sings; the rainbow dips 
Above the rocks, there is no gold at the other end, 
Save for a lone star fish who flops out of the water 
And onto the dry land. 

Metaphorical Lymericals.

You shape and mold me into a man, the son said to the father.

I am not ecstatic about your plan of annihilation.

Son, he said, we are at war, and war holds many lies-

Lies inside the government, and outside, in the farmland-

These are lies, the lies that are words, and the feelings

Held deep inside.  My mother said she is like a tiger,

That growls in the night.  My father is like a tiger,

That bounds and holds its prey.  Everything is a prey,

Even the homeless, even the words that are burned to black,

The shadows that fold like lightning.  It is the night of stars,

The crying of stars-this is the way that it goes, the way it has

Always been.  These are the rainbows, the nights that bend

And break, the sadness that is inside a man, someone with a name-

His face is a mask of broken promises, a field of roses,

Of cataclysmic proportions, trying to hold into the images that

Are fresh of his words.  His eyes meet the eyes of a wounded

Warrior, the warrior that is himself-

He is burdened by who he is, and his skin folds inside-

Cars pass by me on the highway, and this is my life,

The life that people do not understand-

I hide away, inside myself, and break out, insisting wildfires,

Insisting roses are burnt of water-

He makes the money, I make the words, it is how it goes,

He is silent, and everyone fights, misery taken flight.

This is the story of words, of plays mingled with sorrow,

And how English is my first language, and words are my second-

How the rainbow appears in the sky, over our house,

Wherever our house may happen to be, and how war takes flight

And makes us believe something that is not appeared-

And how, poetry, in motion, is not burdened by the face of poetry,

And the face of mankind is different from day and night,

And how his anger is flesh of flesh, and words of words-

Winding Down the Hours.

Like open doorways, I mix and mingle, I drive soiled tears
Through linen sheets. Peace is not with me; a heart is not open,
I quietly rekindle my tears, the heartache beats steady.
I wish I could bring myself out of this stupor, but nothing
Will relinquish this pain that is held on me, when my heart beats
Steadily, the thrum thrum of my heart. Who am I. 
Shadows are thrown on open doorways; daylight moves in through
The open window, where a flower has fallen on a cold moaning
Of wind. This life is not forbidden, this love is not forbidden,
Nor is my heart, it beats like shadows and rivers,
Words are tossed into open wounds. 
Clouds move and shift;
Secrets plummet into the world like warbled voices,
Caught in an updraft of makeshift promise. I do not know how
To say this, do not know how to speak the words that claw
Inside my chest, to say the things that must be spoken.
There is only the window, and the flower on the sill-
The darkness that thrums, and a cold winter chill.

Disappeared.

I hardly knew you, you with your brown curls and your upturned mouth,
you who shouted obscenities into space as it whirled and twirled above me.
I couldn't find you then.  You were lost to me.  We looked in the infinite
wilderness for you five days straight-all we could find were bogs and logs.
I thought you had disappeared, but there you were, still as stone, sitting
in the rocking chair on the dilapidated back porch.  I shouted at you joyfully.
I was in joyous measure.  You happened to be there.  But still, I hardly
knew you, you who do all the talking, talking about bygone days and autumn
nights, your dress whirling around your legs like a curlicue.

The Couch.

I often find myself looking out of windows.
I remember Julius Caesar liked to look out of windows.
The sun sets in the west and rises in the east; at that time,
I am sleeping, dreaming of Hamlet.  What once was now is now
before, and I don't know when I will be back.  The drawing of myself
is hanging in the living room, brought to me by Jack Hanner, the man
who stole my heart.  He didn't exactly steal it; my heart still remains
beating.  I don't know about the beating of other things in this world;
the beating of the drum on Harlan Avenue from the man in the blue hat,
the beating of the rain as it pours down onto the windows of my house.
My house is big enough to fill a hundred fig bars, they are my favorite.
I think about eating.  Eating is eating.  It fills up ten minutes out of
the day then we're back doing other things again, reading, watching
tv, fighting with our loved ones about who gets the couch.

Clean.

A deadweight paper forms on my arm
Like an igloo that stays outside-
To me, life is like a heartbeat that goes
Upside down, upside down.
Something for me to touch.
I rationalize dawn this way and something
Else in my mind comes clean:
What the day is like.
I have not seen the rest of this season riding
Like a bicycle in the park.  This is what I have:
Pens and paper and ink cartridges.  All alone
I stand, the river is red from kool-aid.
I seek help where there is none.  Tomorrow,
I will do more to help myself, help myself.
This is not my week.  Heaven has gone backwards.
The light is in my window, and I can see
A reflection in the light.  Tell me where have I been,
I have not seen anything but the light and it bugs
Me.  I wish I could fly off elsewhere, the night
Is too deep for me.  The color of the wind is short
And sweet, daybreak enters the wild wild wonder.
I am not here, so close to hear.  My ears feel like
Shadows of a broken dawn.  I am not trying to
Disappear.  I just want to be left alone for awhile.